Chapter 17

17

OMAR RECOGNIZED THE VOICE. HE WAS STROLLING ALONG THE STREET AFTER lunch with his hands in his pockets when he heard it and looked up.

He saw a young woman in a brown-and-yellow patchwork dress walking down the commissary steps. The town was busiest at this time of day, but even amid the noise, he could hear her singing. He was stopped now on the same side of the road where she was, and he lifted the brim of his hat to get a better look. She was holding something in one of her hands. Could it really be her? Through the general din, the horse hooves and rolling wooden carts, he listened as the young woman continued to sing. And the year oh jubilo. Yes, it was her. There was no question in his mind.

When she got to the bottom of the steps, the young woman turned left, away from where Omar was standing. She walked briskly between and around other people on the street. Omar trailed behind her, some distance away. A mule cart stopped in front of her once and Omar watched as she hurried around its back end.

He followed her for a full block, her dress swaying as she strode, before he felt foolish enough that he realized he would have to do something else if he wanted to talk to her.

Before he could think about it, he jogged down the street, shielding himself behind passersby and idling carriages, until he estimated that he was far enough out ahead, then he stopped, turned, and walked as casually as he could so that it appeared he just happened to be walking her way. He shoved his hands back into his pockets and tried not to trip over his own two feet.

The young woman stopped when she saw him. She had just passed a pole to which a horse was tied, and right there, she stopped. Squeezing his hands in his pockets, Omar kept walking toward her. He did not break stride. Although the instant he got to where she was standing, he realized he did not know what to say.

She spoke first. “It’s you.”

She remembered him, then.

Omar took off his hat and held it to his chest. “Buenas,” he said, and immediately cringed. He had meant to speak English, but he was so nervous he had spoken Spanish instead. He blinked a few times to calm himself down. He was not made for moments like this.

“The man from the street.”

“Yes,” Omar said.

She stared at him with genuine shock. “I didn’t know... I hoped... Well, I did wonder but...”

“I am fine now.”

Just behind her, the horse lowered its neck and nudged its nose in the mud.

“Because of you,” Omar added.

The young woman shrugged. “I just did what they all ought to have done.”

She was extremely pretty. Her skin was lighter than his, her cheeks high and round. Her eyes appeared gray in the light of the sun. He had never seen anyone with eyes like that before, and suddenly Omar found himself wanting to know everything about her, all her secrets and sorrows.

“What is your name?” he asked.

“Ada Bunting.”

“My name is Omar.”

She cocked her head slightly and said, “But how did you know it was me? Your eyes were closed the whole time I was with you.”

“I remembered your voice. You sang to me.”

She grinned. “Don’t let my mother hear you saying that.”

Omar glanced around. “Your mother is here?”

The grin disappeared. “No. My mother is back in Barbados. My sister, too. It’s just me who came here.”

“To work?”

At that, as though she had been reminded of something, Ada startled and raised the jar in her hand. “I have to be getting back!” She started hurrying past him.

“Where?”

She spun around. “To the Oswald house, where I work!” Then she ran.

Omar stood in the street, his hat still in his hand, and watched her go, mud spraying the back of her dress as she went.